


Our United Strength

by apliddell



Series: An Extraordinary Genius for Minutiae [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Johnlock, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Happy Sex, Hurt and comfort, John's blog, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mention Of Homophobia, Parent Death, Past Child Abuse, Smut, Therapy, parental homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 09:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: John deserves to be well and happy, and Sherlock wants to help him get there.





	Our United Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this story deals with a character coping with the death of an estranged abusive parent. There are brief and non-graphic allusions to past child abuse.

“John?” Something unmooring about waking alone. Something surreal. John does not answer, and he is not there (here)(he is not here, but he must be there, only There is not a readily apparent there)(yet)(stopitshutup). There is a cool dent on his pillow, and the bedclothes on his side of the bed are smooth. “John?” Around me, the flat is quiet. Sit up, disliking the irrational feelings in my stomach. Kick off the bedclothes, pull on dressing gown, and go out to the sitting room. Empty. And the kitchen. There’s milk and eggs in the fridge, dog food in the pantry, and a coolish cup of coffee on the worktop. Peer up the stairs, and the door to John’s old bedroom is stood open, the room dark and empty. 

 

Return to the sitting room, and on second pass, there is something rather arresting about it. A lingering, mild smoky odor. None of our possessions seem to have been burnt, and there is no fire in the fireplace, though there is some interesting fluffy black ash. I know ash. Cross to the fireplace, crouch, and hover a hand over the ashes. Cool, totally cool. Test the texture between my fingers, and as I do, a discoloured shred of paper flutters onto the hearth. Pick it up. It’s newsprint. That’s useful. Look about the room for the rest of the paper but don’t see it anywhere. Going from the quantity of ash, there’s a good chance the entire paper was burnt. Clever of John, burning the entire paper. If he’d only burned the bit that provoked him into. Whatever this is. I’d be able to work out from what remained what it was that he burned. This way, there is nothing to deduce. I can (will?)(should??)(what on earth could drive John to this?) still visit the newsagent, and buy a new paper to go through, looking for clues (cold fireplace suggests the paper was burnt in pieces, probably with my cigarette lighter)(what is this??). 

 

The clunk of the front door and step on the stair are not quite enough to pull me out of my reverie, so when John and Bunbury enter, I start a bit, and Bunbury rushing up to sniff me and lick my ear knocks me properly over. John himself follows at a more sedate pace and kisses me on my rather sheepish cheek. 

 

“Good morning, John. I missed you when I woke up. You should have waked me also, and I’d have gone with you on your walk.” 

 

“Leave that, please. You’ll get it all over the floor,” John is slightly embarrassed of his crisp tone. He clears his throat and crouches next to me to pet Bunbury. “You don’t have to investigate me like this,” John nods at the charred and crumbling scrap of newsprint on my knee. “If you want to know something, you can just ask.” 

 

Flick the ash back into the fireplace, and raise my chin defiantly, though I’m probably blushing (face is warm), “Burning newspapers in the fireplace doesn’t exactly scream ‘game for a chat.’” 

 

John sighs, “Too much to hope you might leave it, I suppose.” 

 

Fold my arms, “For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death parts us.”

 

“We’ve not actually got to that bit yet,” John remarks. 

 

“Of course we have. We’ve had better betters and worse worsts, and even death-”

 

“Fake death,” John interrupts. “Doesn’t count. Don’t push it, Sherlock. Just. Just leave it, all right.” 

 

“I never leave it.”

 

John rises and offers a hand to pull me to my feet, “Please, Sherlock. Just let it alone. It’s not worth it.”

 

Let John hoist me up, “You’re worth it.” He smiles a little reluctantly, and I tuck myself against him, wind his arm around me by the hand I’m holding, “I want to know all about you, John.” 

 

John’s smile grows, and he squeezes me and kisses my temple, “Let’s get you dressed, mm? We’ve got a client, haven’t we?”

 

Swallow a sigh, “Come and have a shower with me? I really did miss you when I woke up, and you weren’t there. It’s unnatural. You owe me wake-up cuddle.” 

 

John grins, “Are you going to cuddle me in the shower? I’m already dressed.” 

 

“Indeed, and it isn’t as if I’ve any experience in undressing you.” Tug his arm, “You owe me, John!” And he laughs and lets himself be towed along to the bathroom. 

 

…

  
  


“Where are you going?” John calls from the kitchen. 

 

Cringe and freeze in the doorway (fucking squeaky hinge on the door), “Just.” Consider fibbing but decide against it. “Just popping down to the newsagent for a paper.” 

 

John appears in the sitting room, wiping his hands on the pinafore he’s wearing and tucking a spatula into his pocket as if holstering a gun, “Why?”

 

“You know why.”

 

John’s face darkens, “Sherlock.”

 

“Shouldn’t take a mo. If it isn’t something on the front page, there’re only a handful of sections you bother checking on a regular basis, so front page, sport, crime, and-”

 

“Obits,” John finishes for me. He’s got that scary little smile on now. He doesn’t often look at me that way, not anymore. Hate it when he looks at me that way. 

 

I shut the door, “Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Oh.” 

 

Go and hug him, but he’s stiff and unresponsive in my arms, “I’m terribly sorry. Who died?”

 

John reaches for his phone and pulls something up on it, then hands it over, “There you are. Read all about it.” 

 

Look down at the screen, 

 

_ After a rich and charitable life, filled with friendship and family, Surrey resident, Steven Hamish Watson has died at the age of 74. Steven passed on peacefully in his sleep, at home, after a suffering a stroke. A decorated veteran of the British Army, after retiring from the Armed Forces, Steven worked as an engineer for 27 years. He was known amongst his friends and family for his volunteer work in his free time and his love for his garden. Steven is survived by his daughters Carolyn and Nora and his grandson Jacob.  _

 

I look up at John, confused. “This is…”

 

“My horrible dad, yeah,” most of the anger has slid off John’s features. He looks, well, relieved. “I should have just told you straight away, I suppose. But I knew you’d.” He sighs, “I don’t care, and I knew you’d think I would. I. I didn’t want anything to do with him, and now I never ever will again. It’s fine, Sherlock. Really. It’s fine.” 

 

Look down at the phone again, “It doesn’t mention Harry and you.”

 

“Right, and good thing too, or I’d have to have this conversation about another dozen times, wouldn’t I?” John snaps. Try not to wince, but I’m not sure I manage it. I didn’t manage it. “Sorry,” John fortifies his apology with a little squeeze on my shoulder. “Really, it’s nothing. Can we just go back to forgetting he existed? Please?”

 

Downstairs the front door buzzes before I’ve even opened my mouth to reply. John whisks off his apron and tosses it into the kitchen, then goes down to answer the door. 

 

…

  
  


It was kind of a brilliant case, actually. Sherlock was clever and brave and beautiful as always. There was a footchase. I knocked someone down. Sherlock fussed over my bruised knuckles, then towed me into a bar to get ice for my hand but somehow wound up sucking me off in the gents. Not a bad day’s work at all. 

 

“Is your shoulder stiff, John?” Sherlock asked as he helped me out of my coat, once we were inside our flat that evening. 

 

“A bit, yeah. It’s the weather. It always gets a bit stiff, when the weather changes.” 

 

Sherlock pulled off his gloves and slipped one warm hand down the back of my jumper to rub my shoulder, “We must have a hot bath, then. Would you like that, John?”

 

“Sure, sounds good.”

 

Sherlock kissed the back of my head, “Then lay a fire for us for after, if you don’t mind. I’ll see to the bath.” And he shimmered off to the bathroom.

 

I found him a few minutes later, naked and leaning over the steaming, half filled tub to toss in a handful of bath salts. There were lit candles set round the edges of the tub, and our dressing gowns were laid over the towel rack. 

 

“Wow, you really know how to organise a bath, lovely.” 

 

Sherlock turned off the tap then faced me, smiling and gestured to the tub, “After you, John.” 

 

I shed my remaining clothes, and climbed in. The water was just the right side of too hot, and I sighed with satisfaction as I sank into it. Sherlock followed me in, settling himself between my thighs and leaning back against my chest. 

 

He took my hand and kissed it and brought it to his heart, “Lovely.”

 

“Mmm,” I agreed. And for a long time, we were quiet, tranquility growing in the quiet between us.

 

…

 

“Did you, erm.” Sherlock stroked my arm that lay about his chest, Did you go back to Ella after. Erm. After I.”

 

“After you jumped? Once,” I rubbed my thumb against his chest. 

 

“I can’t imagine that helped much. Just once.” 

 

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk. She spent my whole session trying to get me to say aloud that you’d. You were gone. I couldn’t get it out. I couldn’t talk. It felt. Pointless.” 

 

Sherlock shivered and squeezed my hand, “What did you. Do? How did you cope?”

 

“Sherlock. Do we have to talk about this? It’s over, isn’t it?”

 

“You dream about it, sometimes,” Sherlock murmured. “You talk in your sleep.” 

 

I said nothing until my fingers began to tingle under his tight grip on my hand, “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

 

Sherlock kissed my hand, “I really wasn’t trying to extract an apology, John. I’m sorry,” he added. “I’m sorry.” 

 

I pinched him, “I don’t mean to upset you is all. I’m sorry about that.” 

 

“That isn’t the point, John.” 

 

I sighed, “Well what is the point, then? What do you want me to say?”

 

“I was only wondering if Ella would be the best option or if we should find someone else.”

 

I shifted and accidentally splashed a bit of water on my face, “Someone else for what?”

 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, “Don’t you think you might. Need a top-up? Talk to someone?”

 

“What, because my shit dad finally pegged out, two and a half decades after I last saw his miserable face? No, I do not fucking think I need a top-up, Sherlock. There is  _ nothing _ wrong with me!” My voice echoed in the quiet of the bathroom, and in my arms, Sherlock went very still. “I’m sorry,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you.” 

 

“It’s all right,” Sherlock said quietly. He cleared his throat, “Suffering isn’t a moral failing, John. But I can’t help you with this. Not properly, not the way you deserve. I can comfort you a little, but.”

 

“You comfort me loads,” I hugged him, and he relaxed a bit into my arms. “Loads. I dnno what I’d do without you.” 

 

Sherlock kissed my hand, and I could feel his smile against my skin, “John.” He paused, “If I’d broken my leg but insisted on ignoring it and hobbling about anyway, you’d be a pretty crap husband, if you just let me and only held my hand and read to me and told me you loved me anyway. Wouldn’t you?”

 

“Am I. Hobbling?” 

 

“Please, John,” he pressed my hand. “Please. Please believe you deserve help. You deserve to be well, John. You deserve to be happy. Don’t you see that?” 

 

“I. It isn’t that I.” I sighed, “Fine. I’ll make an appointment with Ella.” 

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock kissed my hand again. I pinched him, and he stayed warm and solid and breathing in my arms, and he didn’t disappear. 

  
  


…

  
  


Some Friendly Advice

 

Marry your best friend. If you’re going to marry someone or other, if you want to be married, marry your best friend. Marry the person whose elbow you want to bump up against while cleaning your teeth for the foreseeable future. Marry the person whose shoulder you want to fall asleep on during train journeys. Marry the person who you want to tell all your stories to. Marry the person you want next to you when you get bad news. Marry the person who will pick you up out of your own sick and tuck you up in bed. Marry the person you laugh best with. Life is too long and too short for anything less. 

 

Comments (13)

 

Sherlock Holmes:

Hear, hear!

  
  


Sherlock Holmes:

That said, please come to bed. Your best friend misses you. 

  
  


John Watson: 

I’m just coming, love. 

  
  


Janine D-M:

Leave some adorable for the rest of us, won’t you?

 

Mmmorstan:

There’s a bit left to go round. 

  
  


Sherlock Holmes:

Perhaps you could exchange your flirtations on your own platforms. This one’s ours. 

 

John Watson:

You’re not going to start an argument, are you?

  
  


Sherlock Holmes:

Perish the thought. 

  
  


John Watson:

Anyway, I thought I was coming to bed. 

  
  


Sherlock Holmes:

Well hurry up, then.

  
  


Sherlock Holmes:

Don’t answer. Come faster than that. 

  
  


Mmmorstan:

Does the word ‘overshare’ mean anything to you?

 

Janine D-M:

I think they’ve gone. 

  
  


…

  
  


“So tell me what brings you in today, John,” Ella suggested, her pen poised over her notebook. 

 

I considered that, “Sherlock reckons I need help coping. And er. He’s usually right, so.” I shrugged.

 

Ella jotted something in her pad, and I tried not to read it, “Ah, coping. With anything in particular?”

 

I looked down at the carpet for a moment, “Well. My dad died. But I hadn’t seen him since I was sixteen, and I er. Hated him, ha. He was. Not a nice person. I won’t miss him.”

 

Ella nodded and wrote a bit more, “Grief is complicated. It’s all right to mourn the loss of a possibility just as much as you might mourn an actual person or relationship.” 

 

“I am  _ not _ mourning him!” it came out a little louder than I meant it to. That remark kept getting away from me somehow, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

 

“Apology accepted,” Ella said with a quick smile. “That idea seems to make you angry,” she continued quietly after a moment. 

 

“A bit, yeah. I guess it does.” I waited for Ella to ask me why, but she only looked at me, so I told her anyway, “I suppose when people think I am sad, what it feels like is. I should be sad. But I shouldn’t! He hated me. Used to, erm, hit me, call me names, all that. And I hated him. I mean it took a while, but I got there. I, ha. I earned that hate. Worked at it, I mean. And people assuming, oh he’s your dad and deep down you must really love each other. No, I hated him. Hated his guts. 

“And he died ashamed of me, if he even remembered I existed, as I wasn’t mentioned in his obituary because god fucking forbid anyone find out Steve’s got a poof for a son! I don’t happen to hate him; it wasn’t an accident! It wasn’t trivial kid shit! I meant it. I mean it. I hate him!” Ella passed me a box of tissues, and I was surprised to discover that I needed them. I wiped my face, and sipped the glass of water she poured me. “I’ve shouted again. I keep doing that.” 

 

Ella smiled gently, “That seems like it’d be quite painful and heavy to carry around with you all the time.”

 

I shrugged, “I mostly don’t think of him all that much. I suppose I have been more, lately. But it’s. It’ll pass.”

 

Ella consulted a file, “On your intake form, you mentioned you’ve been having trouble sleeping.” 

 

“Happens sometimes.”

 

“That’s true, it does happen sometimes. Doesn’t mean you can’t do something about it. Yes?”

 

I sipped a little more water and wished it was tea, “I suppose I can do something about it.” 

 

Ella nodded, “Good. I remember visualisations helping you to sleep in the past. Do you still find them effective?”

 

“I haven’t tried, actually, but I will.”

 

“Excellent,” she said bracingly. “We can return to that at the end of the session, if you like. Now there’s something I want you to think about for next time.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Ella tucked her pen behind her ear, splayed her notebook on her knee, and leaned forward, “You don’t need your angry feelings toward your father to protect you anymore. He’s gone from your life now, and he can’t hurt you. And just as importantly John, hating him doesn’t help you to love or accept yourself.” She must have seen outraged interruptions bubbling up in me, because she paused to let me speak, then continued when I didn’t, “You don’t need to forgive him, but I want you to practise interrupting the distressing thought patterns you have about your father and focus on self-acceptance instead.”

 

“But I  _ do  _ accept myself. I mean I married Sherlock. How could I do that, if I don’t accept I’m gay?”

 

Ella thought for a moment, “John, when you came in, I asked you why you were here, and you told me that Sherlock wanted you to get help coping.”

 

“Yeah, er yes, he did.”

 

“Do you always frame the things you do to look after yourself in terms of pleasing the people you care about?” I frowned, and she smiled, “You deserve to be well and happy for your own sake, John.” 

 

I sighed, “That’s exactly what Sherlock said.” 

 

“Well!” Ella shut her notebook, “He’s right!”

 

…

  
  


John is still breathing deep, slow breaths, his head pillowed on my chest when he pinches me. But the little pause in his breaths after the pinch, like someone having told a good joke and waiting in suspense for the answering laughter, gives him away. I do laugh, and John laughs too, his eyes still shut, his voice vibrating through my sternum and my ribs. 

 

John lifts his chin and kisses me (slightly sour with sleep)(don’t mind; I love to taste him), “Hello. Stuck to me this whole time, eh?”

 

“Hello John,” run a hand down his back and slip it into the gap between his t shirt and his underwear where his shirt has rucked up during his kip. “Feeling better?”

 

John giggles and takes another kiss, “Mmmyep, all cured now. That Ella’s a genius.” 

 

That isn’t what I meant (he looked so tired when he came home), but if he wants to talk about his session, we’ll talk about his session, “Oh excellent. Lucky you have a talent in finding geniuses.”

 

“Lucky me,” John agrees. He clears his throat and continues more seriously, “I do think we’re getting somewhere this time, though. We agreed we’ll do another six sessions and then see where we are. Nice little top up.”

 

“Good, I’m glad she’s helping.” 

 

John shifts a bit so that he can look into my face more easily, “Thanks for the little push, lovely. I needed it.” 

 

“I’m good with pushy.” John hums a little laugh of agreement and lays his head on my chest again. Stroke along John’s side to his hip, and he kisses my chest in answer, then squeezes my hip. John’s soft hands are as lovely as ever, and I think it may be not entirely my fancy that the rise and fall of his chest is quickening somewhat. 

 

After a bit, John pulls back the bedclothes draped around me to peep under them, “Aha, thought so.” John dances his hand from my hip across my belly and down to land gently on my half-hard cock, “One of Sherlock’s emotions erections.”

 

Catch my breath at that but try and answer with dignity, “One of my what?”

 

“No use pretending,” John grins up at me, then bobs his head to kiss me just above my navel. “Not when I’ve got the evidence right here.” 

 

“I. It. It’s not anything to do with feelings! It’s just proximity and sleeping, John. The bladder fills during sleep, putting pressure on the prostate, which causes-”

 

“Nice try, Professor Hard-on,” John kisses down my belly, his slightly stubbled cheek scraping against my foreskin when he moves (shiver really quite hard at that)(mmmm). John is excessively pleased, particularly at my (mostly) involuntary and very silly giggle at the nickname. “I know every little bitty bit of you extremely well, lucky for you, mmm? And I happen to know that whenever you’re feeling a bit tender, it has a certain.” John squeezes my cock for emphasis, “Effect.” 

 

Shiver, swallow a moan, “This is an incredibly unfair rhetorical tactic.” 

 

“Now why would you bother arguing,” John murmurs, his lips against my skin, “When obviously this is leading up to a rather lovely shag?”

 

“U-unimpeachable integ-” but John licks the head luxuriantly and the rest of my sentence is drowned in a sharp gasp that my fiend of a husband positively revels in.  He pats my hip, and I raise them to let John tug away my pyjama bottoms, pulling my t shirt off and tossing it away as he does. 

 

When I’m naked, John takes my cock in his hand and kisses the head, almost reverently. “Yeah?” he murmurs in answer to my shivers and moans. 

 

“I was meaning to look after you today,” I manage to reply. 

 

“You have done,” John’s voice is low and sweet and raspy, like the scratch of his stubble. “See how grateful I am?” He sucks my hip bone and holds me steady when I squirm under him. John kisses down my hip, along the seam between my groin and my thigh, leaving a tingly trail in his wake. Muffle my gasps in the crook of my arm, and John gently pries it away, kisses my palm, my wrist, my elbow, “I want to hear you, gorgeous. Please let me hear you?”   

 

There’s a sweet note of pleading in John’s voice, and I would do anything for him, “Yes, John.”         

 

“Beautiful,” John kneels between my legs and, under his coaxing, I place one foot flat on each of his thighs. He cuddles my knee to him, nuzzling and biting the bend of it, and joy and eagerness are so beautifully married on his sweet face that I can scarcely look at him, scarcely keep still (John can make me feel even more than usual that I’m too big, too much to be contained in my body and to live only in one moment of time at once)(only with John it is delicious, and he knows just where to open release valves). 

 

John holds one hand out to me, “Lick this, please.” Lean forward and comply with eagerness (he tastes of me)(!). John eases me back when he withdraws his hand and begins to stroke his own cock, smiling down at me, his eyes bright and hooded. 

 

“Are you going to fuck me, John?”

 

John smile broadens, and he cocks his head as if he hadn’t thought of it before, “Would you like that, Sherlock? You want me to fuck you?” Drum my heels on his thighs, and he grins and strokes down my shin, “Is that a yes?”

 

“Yes, John!”

 

John kisses my knee, “I think I can do that. Pass me the lube.” John points to his night table, then laughs when I accidentally smack the lube off the table and onto the floor. “Easy now. I was going to ask you if you wanted to be on top, but at this rate…”

 

“Just for that, I’m making you go and get it.”

 

“My pleasure,” John leans off the edge of the bed to retrieve the bottle, and pops back up snapping open the lid. Wriggle in place, and John grins and gives my knee a quick pat before squeezing some lube onto his fingers. “Easy now,” John rubs soothing ovals on my belly, but with his other hand, drags cool, slick fingers quickly down my perineum, then presses one slowly into me. “Good?” 

 

Nod and shut my eyes under John’s luminous smile, “More.”

 

John adds another finger, “Touch your cock, gorgeous.” 

 

I obey, squirming and gasping with John’s fingers inside me. 

 

“More?” he asks presently. 

 

“Just fuck me, John, for god’s sake!”

 

John laughs low and the mattress squeaks and trembles when he shifts forward to kiss me, sweet and warm and soft as melting. It doesn’t make me less impatient. Open my eyes when John’s mouth and hands withdraw to watch him roll on the condom and slick himself up. His expression is exquisite, a restrained keenness that unravels into hungry adoration as he pushes slowly into me. 

 

“How’s that?” John’s whisper is as taut with desire as his body is, and the only coherent answer I can make him is to rock forward against him. John groans when I do and meets my hips with his. 

 

Jolt hard, “John!” 

 

John rocks his hips again, finding his pace,“Yeah?” Groan helpless and boneless under him, and shut my eyes. John reaches for my hand, tangled in the bedclothes and brings it to my cock. We stroke me together, and John rolls a bit of pre-come over the head of my cock, laughing delightedly when I jolt again (close close gettingclosegod!). “Nearly lost you there, didn’t I? I could feel it. God, you’re fucking gorgeous, you know?” Moan a very raggedy little sound (soveryclosenow), and John slows the rocking of his hips, “What’s that, Sherlock? You do know?”

 

“Yes, John!”

 

“Yes, Sherlock,” John sighs, thrusting quicker again. “So beautiful, so fucking beautiful.” He squeezes my hand around my cock and swipes his thumb hard over the head again, and I shudder hard and come over our fists with a little shout. John moans, sinks down toward me, and kisses me through the aftershock without pulling out. “Beautiful,” he murmurs low but so intently that my eardrum vibrates. John digs into my hip with his come-slick fingers and after a few more uneven thrusts, he comes with a groan that he muffles against my neck so that I can feel it singing in my skin. John starts to rise, but I throw my arms about him and hold him as if we might meld together and never part again. 

 

John chuckles and his voice vibrates my eardrum anew, “Let me pull out, love.”

 

“Pulling out is overrated.” 

 

“You say that now, but you’ll be singing a different tune when you’re face down and me behind you with a torch and a prayer because we lost the condom up there, won’t you?”

 

Try and sigh longsufferingly but giggle instead, “Now who’s Professor Hard-on?”

 

John giggles also as he slowly withdraws, “Mmm someone thinks he won’t have his post-coital cuddle.” He rolls the condom up in a tissue and tosses it in his little night table bin. 

 

“I didn’t imagine that for an instant, John. What a preposterous suggestion.” Tug on his hip, “Come back here and fulfill your duty.”

 

“You’re very bossy for two seconds off an orgasm,” John remarks, settling back down into the bed and spooning me, “Generally you’re a sweet little jelly thing and halfway asleep by now.”

 

“I’ve just waked up, John, and I’ve never been a jelly thing in my life!” 

 

“Mm, sweet we don’t quibble with, though,” John lays his cheek against mine. 

 

Shut my eyes despite myself (really have just waked up), “I’ve only enough strength to rebut a certain number of epithets, John.”

 

“Here’s me aiming for sweet nothings,” John kisses my earlobe. 

 

“Same thing,” pull John’s arm a little tighter about my waist. “All your nothings are sweet, John. You’re the jelly thing, of the two of us.”

 

John laughs at that (can feel his belly tremble against my back)(delicious), “Have I told you I adore you?”

 

“Mmm?” I hum in a say-moreish tone.

 

“Mmm,” he kisses my hair. “More than anything, my sweet little jelly thing. You really know how to burnish up the afterglow.” And I should tease him in return (I’m meant to) but I find that like a jelly thing, all I can seem to do is turn my face into my pillow and smile and smile. 


End file.
